


Dovere

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, cousin/cousin (onesided), tybalt angst is good angst, tybalt is a troubled cupcake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tybalt swings his sword, and his mind whirls with more emotions than he can possibly keep track of. He fights; he thinks. He is a weapon; he is a boy. He doesn't love anyone; but he loves her more than he can say.  But above all else, he is tied to his family and to his duties as a son, a nephew, and a cousin. (Onesided Tybalt/Juliet))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dovere

His blows started out focused; measured, precise, without a step out of place. He couldn't afford to be clumsy; one misstep, he knew, could cost him his life. His mind placed the enemy in front of him even if his own eyes could not see them; his sword bartered back and forth with an invisible foe.

He was fighting a battle, and as usual, he was winning. Compared to his own skill with a blade, his imagined opponent was clumsy and unskilled; victory was the objective, and he was the driving force pushing towards it. His sword clashed over and over against the concrete pillar, deep marrs in the stone joining the countless others that lingered from Tybalt's previous pretend victories. Like all the times before, Tybalt had been able to win against himself surely, even try as he might to pose himself with a formidable challenge.

If she were here, he supposed that Juliet would criticize him for having too little of an imagination. She was always good at that, Tybalt mused as his blade made another resounding crack against the thick pillar. Unlike her mother's cold hands and steely eyes, Juliet was able to point out the flaws in Tybalt's design; she could advise him, even tease him, with a warm smile and the ease of a child interacting with its own blood sibling. When Juliet spoke to him, it never seemed like she was pressing him or demanding him; her voice was never harsh, her words never scathing; she was simply being Juliet, as he was Tybalt.

Then again, he mused, if Juliet were here she would probably laugh at him for battling against a pillar. Perhaps it did look a bit foolish, he realized, slowly allowing his sword to drop to his side; at any rate, he had won without question.

Juliet used to love to watch Tybalt train; she would sit in the corner of the room for hours and watch as Tybalt's father showed him the way with a sword, a knife, or any number of other numerous weapons the Capulets had at their disposal. With her keen eyes and sharp mind, Tybalt was sure little Juliet had been absorbing more than Lord Capulet would have exactly liked her to; perhaps this was why, in recent years, she'd been spending more time with her mother and her nurse, often too busy to look in on her cousin.

Training was more intense now, as well; after his father's death Tybalt had found it more important than ever to stay in shape. He couldn't neglect his own condition, not when he was the most highly trained warrior of House Capulet, not when the likes of Montague and his filth were still prowling the streets, starting rabble wherever they were able...

The thought of the Montagues pricked his ire afresh; taking up his sword once more, in a swift movement Tybalt buried the blade shallowly into the stone. Montague had trained swordsmen on his side as well; if Tybalt wanted to remain useful, fulfill his duty to his aunt and uncle and defend the Capulets, he needed to work harder.

The other young Capulet men didn't understand, he knew, returning to swinging his weapon at the stone with full ferocity. They couldn't comprehend what it was like to be fifteen and to see your father's blood run like rainwater into the gutters, to have your aunt turn to you and cup your cheek in her hand, to feel her heavy breath against her neck as she whispered that it was your job now. To protect your family. To protect _her._

Juliet.

Protecting Juliet- he could think of nothing else in the world more important. His cousin, his precious cousin, beautiful as a flower and as delicate as the freshly fallen snow of winter. He would live by her, die by her; just as it had been all his life, and just as it would always be.

Some days he didn't know how he really felt about Juliet; and some days he knew all too well. Some days it was a beast inside his gut, writhing and churning just to be set free, or at the very least to be allowed to stop tearing its host apart from the inside out. But Tybalt knew the truth; he was sick. He looked upon his cousin, his bosom companion from when Tybalt was a tot and Juliet little more than fresh from her nurse’s arms, and he loved her. But not in the way a cousin should; he loved Juliet, the closest thing he’d ever known to a sister and a best friend. He loved her not for her body, not for any physical pleasure that he had no interest in, but for _her._

He loved her.

But it would never come to be. The things he felt for his cousin were unhealthy, obscene. And one day Juliet would leave him; married off, to be some nobleman’s prized wife, where she would be treated like little other than a pretty toy to look at and play with sometimes; her sharp mind would be left to ruin, and they would be allowed to touch her…

Tybalt didn’t even notice the force of his blows against the pillar becoming more and more violent; had he, it is doubtful he would have been able to stop anyway. Juliet, a wife, a mother, so young… the thought made something inside of him cringe. They wouldn’t value her, wouldn’t appreciate her, wouldn’t love her the way she deserved; and she so greatly deserved all the world and more. He knew his uncle was considering the Prince’s relations as possible matches; his own orphaned nephews, Mercutio and Valentine, or even the Count Paris from up north. None of those men were fit to gaze upon Juliet’s fair face, to capture her untouched lips with their own...

Blow, blow, blow, and untempered fury. What drove him into such a craze? He couldn’t pinpoint himself, he could not say what the rage bubbling up inside of him and forcing its way out really meant. Fury at himself, and his own emotions; his own inability to protect his cousin. Fury at his aunt and uncle; fury at the Montagues; even fury at Juliet herself. He didn’t know, he couldn't know, he couldn’t stop; the fury held him in its fist and was crushing him, slowly, steadily. If he didn’t escape from it, he thought, he would surely be ground to dust… a roar escaped him, his swings becoming more furious and more desperate with every blow that was met with nothing but stone to parry it.

"Tybalt!"

The voice cut through the unceasing storm of rage inside his head like water over fevered skin; his sword missed, swinging far to one side as he lunged forward, and with a great crash chunks of porcelain were suddenly skittering across the ground.

Tybalt went still, all too aware- all too horribly, shamefully aware- of the presence of Juliet behind him. In his rages, he was barely able to control himself; she shouldn't be here, it could be dangerous, she should ever be allowed to see him in such a state…

A hand on his shoulder made his body tense, and his head turned to the side to see Juliet gazing up at him; her eyes were dark, serene, altogether unsurprised. “Oh, Tybalt.”

“I’m sorry… I lost control of myself, I didn’t mean…”

“What’s done is done.” He watched Juliet sweep by him, a heavy silk robe pulled tightly over her thin nightdress and her braided hair falling to one side as she crouched down before the shattered vase. “Help me with this,” she instructed, and he immediately moved to do so without second thought.

“Your hands will get bloodied,” he realized as she carefully began placing pieces of porcelain into one of her handkerchiefs, sorting through the smaller pieces with a careful eye. “Here…” His hands moved to brush his cousin’s out of the way. “Let me, it was my fault, I didn’t know you were here, I didn’t…”

Juliet cut him off by taking his offered hand and squeezing it in hers; she wore her concern on her face with an openness Tybalt had never been able to acquire. “Your pulse is still racing, Tybalt,” she observed. “You are upset; not over the vase, surely? What an awful thing to distress yourself over.”

He ground his teeth; she could see through him as easily as glass. “At my own lack of self-control,” he corrected, and Juliet nodded solemnly as took his second hand in her own. Carefully, she formed both his palms into a spread out position, and then placed the porcelain-filled handkerchief upon them. Returning to her work once more with both hands now free, she nodded- though whether this was in response to his words or a thought in her own head, he could not be sure.

“I came down,” she said softly, “to watch you train. I could hear you from my room.”

“I was that loud?”

“You were,” she replied with the ghost of a smile flickering across her face. “You know, cousin… I never get upset over broken glass. We break things every day, you know, and try as we may like sometimes we are not able to fix them again; but glass, glass is just that. No matter how bad things are, you can always pick up the pieces; even if not all at one time. You can atone for your mistake, make things better, and clean up the mess you’ve left behind in your wake.”

Her eyes flickered up to him, and caught his own dark gaze; this time, she did grin. “If only all problems in life could be half as simple as broken glass!”

“But,” Tybalt pointed out, and one hand shot forward to seize Juliet’s wrist; where his cousin, in her distraction, had managed to prick her finger with a sharper shard. A fine bead of red blood now bubbled to the surface, stark upon her white skin. “Sometimes the glass can cut. What then?”

“Cuts heal,” replied Juliet with a tender smile, gently removing her hand from her cousin’s grasp and placing her finger in her mouth for half a second, sucking away the blood and lingering pain before moving to return to work. Tybalt would have none of it; he folded the handkerchief around the already collected shards and passed it to her, rising and gesturing for her to do the same.

“I can have Sampson clear the rest in the morning,” he said, helping her to her feet. “You mustn’t trouble yourself clearing another’s mess.”

“Even if troubling myself with messes helps me to think?” She raised an eyebrow. “As well to help you, who I feel as if I have not truly spoken to in too long?”

Tybalt’s eyes drifted to the floor. She was close; too close, but not in the same overbearing, toxic way of her mother. She was too close to him, and in that moment all he wanted was to cup her face and look into her eyes forever, to read every last one of the beautiful thoughts and secrets she held behind them.

“I’ve missed you, Tybalt. You know that.”

“I’ve missed you.”

His back tensed when he felt her arms wrap around his neck, clinging to him as she pulled him into a tight hug; Juliet was the only one he could even think of who would dare to try and hug him (unless Mercutio was in a rowdy mood and didn’t fear Tybalt biting him again- the last time, he hoped, had taught the young prince’s nephew a lesson or two).

When Juliet pulled away, he couldn’t shake the strangely empty feeling that lingered after her touch. Standing back, she glanced towards the ground at Tybalt’s discarded sword and slowly reached down to pick it up. She handled the sword delicately but with confidence, fingering the hilt in her hand as she stared down at the Capulet seal engraved in the silver.

“What do you say?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Blow for blow? I’m sure I could take you.”

His own lips quirked up in a rare smile, and Juliet’s eyes shone with her victory. “Perhaps you could,” he replied with a breath of a laugh, taking the sword from her hands and sheathing it before slowly ushering her before him. “But tomorrow. It’s late. You should head back to bed.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not without sleep,” she pointed out sensibly, seeming pleased when her cousin proceeded to follow her up to her chambers (Tybalt had little doubt that if he didn’t, she likely wouldn’t return back to her room that night). “Sleep makes you strong, cousin.”

“And all the more strength to those with beauty,” he replied without thinking, his face automatically taking on a flush as he averted his eyes from looking at her. He needed to watch his tongue; he was too disciplined to make such foolish errors.

“I’m not beautiful,” replied Juliet automatically, one hand lingering on the doorknob to her room; she seemed to consider the doorway and what lay beyond for a few moments before spinning around to face Tybalt again, abruptly throwing her arms around his neck once more.

Tybalt instinctively tensed into the hug, but after a few seconds that seemed like hours his spine relaxed and he allowed himself to pull his cousin tighter to him as well. Juliet was the only one who could hug him; the only one who ever had, since his mother died so many years ago. It felt strange to feel another touching him with such selflessness, such tender kindness that he was so unaccustomed to. But it also made him feel warmer than he had in a long time.

The two cousins finally pulled away from each other, and Juliet wore a genuine smile on her lips. “Rest easy, cousin,” she whispered, her voice filled with warmth, before she quickly slipped through the doorway to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Tybalt, left standing in the hallway, pressed a hand to his cheek; the lingering feeling of her hand upon his face, the silkiness of her hair as his chin rested upon the crown of her head, the pure affection in her eyes and voice and smile… for a moment he felt dizzy, and almost laughed aloud.

She was beautiful, his cousin; and he was sick, for he loved her. But she was too gentle, too pure, too perfect for any such words to ever pass his lips; he would guard her, he would protect her for as long as he could and as long as he was needed. He would fulfil his duty as a cousin, a nephew, a son. Protect- protect his family, protect their honor, protect Juliet. Protect them from the Montagues and any other threat that might be posed to them. So it would be, because, in the end, that was exactly what he had been born to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore my interpretation of Tybalt a little more, as well as his emotions and motivations; the idea of him being in love with Juliet (which is apparently quite a popular one in fandom, stemming from the RetJ/ResJ productions?) I found fascinating, and really wanted to explore that. So, yeah, warnings for that!


End file.
